


And Then Come Falling Down

by ll_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aromantic Sherlock Holmes, Gen, Questioning Rosie, a wee bit of sherlolly but honestly so little it doesn't even belong in the relationship tag, godparentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23726557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: Wrangling an over-curious teenager hadn't been on his mind when he'd made his vow at John and Mary's wedding. But Sherlock will always be there nonetheless.Watch the petals start to fly//And then come falling down//Hear the wind begin to cry//As she sees some touch the groundAh, lady, like the flower fair//Some day you'll have to fall//And you can find me standin' there//To catch you if you crawl- Townes Van Zandt, Columbine
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	And Then Come Falling Down

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how I feel about this one. It's a bit different from my usual. Feel free to let me know what you think.

They get to the end of the block before Sherlock stops and holds out his hand, palm up and fingers splayed in a silent command. They've just passed the point where the sounds of the party have faded into the muted nighttime sounds of this posh London neighborhood, and Sherlock mentally estimates that they'd vacated the premises with just five minutes to spare before the police come knocking to shut down the festivities.

Mary's bright eyes stare up at him, framed by Harry Watson's dirty blonde locks, the mouth that's all hers in a mulish twist. "What?"

"Rosamund."

She drops her face to the ground, digs into the pocket of her coat and slaps a pack of cigarettes into Sherlock's palm. "They aren't _mine_ ," she grinds out with full blown teenage exasperation. "I don't smoke."

Sherlock keeps silent, flipping the cardboard box around in his fingers and flicking open the lid to peer inside, counting and finding three missing.

"I only had one!" Rosie says, still defiant. "And they _aren't_ mine. They're Archie's; he just asked me to hold them."

"Mr Lyttelton is welcome to come retrieve his property at his convenience," Sherlock says, ignoring his goddaughter's dismayed outburst. "Look at me." A beat, and he adds, "Please."

Jaw clenched, she lifts her chin, daring him to inspect her with just the fierce look in her eyes. Sherlock doesn't rise to her attempt at reverse psychology and sweeps his sharp gaze over her. The lights are low on this residential corner, and in truth his eyesight is maybe not as strong as it once was, but even so he doesn't miss the glassy, unfocused gaze and the pink flush across her nose. And that aside, she smells like a university pub – cigarettes and cheap beer and a sugary undertone of whatever too sweet drink is now in fashion for plying unsuspecting young women.

There are a hundred words in his head, scrambling over each other to get out of his mouth. Angry reproaches, reminders that no matter how much of an idiot her father is, she's inherited her mother's intelligence and why can't she act like it. That when they'd agreed with that poncy school of hers to bump her up two grades, it was because they expected her to be more mature than her peers, not less. That Archibald Edward Lyttelton might be _just the dreamiest_ , but bringing a girl four years his junior to what can only be described as a frat party only proved him to be an arsehole.

That all the hours of self-defense training she's received from him and her Aunt Molly and half the Met won't protect her if she's too intoxicated to fight back. And he has a hundred cases as proof, a line of bodies he could stretch from the morgue at St Barts to his doorstep at 221B.

But the thing he actually says is just, "Are you okay?"

"Oh my god, I'm _fine_." Rosie shifts on her feet, stuffs her hands in her pockets. After a long, narrow look, Sherlock decides it's nothing more sinister than bog standard teenage embarrassment.

"Well, then," he says with his usual staccato, sticks the cigarette pack into his coat pocket and turns on his heel, towards the nearest street where they'll be able to hail a cab. "Come along."

He doesn't get half a step when Rosie pulls him up abruptly short with just a quiet, little, "um."

She hasn't moved, except to start doing that nervous thing of hers where she twists the toe of her shoe on the ground that was cute when she was six and frankly would still be cute if he had even the slightest clue _why_ she was doing it which he might be able to deduce if his heart wasn't thumping too loud in his ears for him to think…

Rosie sucks in a breath through her teeth and darts a glance up at him through her lashes. "It's only… I told Dad I was spending the night at Katie's."

"Where were you going to spend the night then- no!" Sherlock holds up a hand, squeezing his eyes shut. "No, do _not_ tell me."

"At _Katie's_ , Uncle Sherlock." He can hear her rolling her eyes. "But she's still at the party, and … um…"

Eyes still closed, Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose. John is going to be stroppy about this. "You want me to cover for you."

"I asked Dad if I could come to the party-" Sherlock opens his eyes finally to see Rosie pushing her lips out in a pout, her eyes skittering along the concrete. "And he said no. And- um."

"He was correct?" Sherlock says, rather mildly under the circumstances.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "Alright, I know. It was a dumb thing to do. Can I _please_ crash at Baker Street tonight?" Rosie sighs, making quite the show of how much it pains her to make her next concession, "I promise I'll tell Dad the truth in the morning."

No part of Sherlock believes she intends to keep that promise. But no matter. He reaches out and taps under her chin. "Rosamund. Look at me. We all do silly things-"

"That's Aunt Molly's line."

"Yes." And he's not done plagiarizing Molly either, not by a long shot. "But you did the right thing, calling me to come get you. You know, no matter what, I will come if you need me."

Rosie squirms in an awkward dance of teenage embarrassment. "Does that mean I can stay with you tonight, then?" she asks tartly. But she ruins it by drifting closer and clutching at his coat sleeve, the way she used to when she was little and wanted to keep him close.

Sherlock allows his lips to quirk into a half smile. "Of course. I'll even contrive to keep this escapade from your father, _if_ you promise to be more circumspect in the future."

She slams into his side with a soft thump, arms encircling his waist. "Thanks, Uncle Sherlock. You're the best!"

He's not. Nowhere near. But Sherlock ghosts his long fingers over Rosie's hair and believes her, just for a moment.

…

"Hey, Uncle Sherlock?" Rosie says, creeping into the sitting room after a shower and a change of clothes, into one of his t-shirts and an old pair of pajama bottoms that Molly left years ago and Sherlock has never found the time to return. It's nearing midnight, but given her recent litany of transgressions, staying up past her bedtime is hardly worth consideration.

Sherlock waves her in. "Get some water," he says. "You'll appreciate it in the morning."

Rosie clatters around in the kitchen for a few minutes, bringing him a cup of tea and settling herself in her dad's chair to sip at her water. "Uncle Sherlock…" She pauses to chew her lip. "How do you know if you like someone?"

Sherlock lifts his gaze from his violin, feeling a tension headache start to bloom between his eyes. As much as he wants to deduce Archibald Edward Lyttelton to dust _and_ forbid his goddaughter from developing even an iota of affection for the little ponce, he has to admit that Molly is right. They must let Rosie make her own mistakes in love.

"I'm sure I'm not the right person to ask," he says, plucking out a few notes. "Your Aunt Molly is a much better choice."

Clutching her glass in both hands, Rosie frowns thoughtfully. "We already talked about, you know, love and stuff. And sex."

The chord Sherlock is strumming goes sour. Sherlock sets the violin aside and takes a very large sip of his tea.

Tea that Rosamund Mary Watson has doctored with a generous slug of whiskey. Sherlock nearly aspirates it but avoids the indignity at the last second, getting away with only a few, loud coughs.

"We need to discuss your continued impertinence," he wheezes.

"I thought tea would help," Rosie says, popping the 'p' and sipping demurely at her water while watching him over the rim of her glass in perfect innocence. "Anyway. How do you know … what people you like? What kind of people, I mean."

Her sass melts away midway through the question. What's left is an uncharacteristic uncertainty, and Sherlock softens.

"Dearest girl," the affectation used to make her giggle, now she only scrunches her nose, "whichever way it turns out is fine..."

"I know it's _fine_." Rosie interrupts, rolling her eyes expansively.

Instead of annoyance, Sherlock ducks his head to hide his smirk. Puberty has transformed his sweet little girl into a wretched scamp, and Sherlock has enjoyed every moment. Not so John, but fathers are meant to be in a perpetual state of aggrievement over their teenage daughters, or so Sherlock assumes.

"The thing is," Rosie continues, "I like Archie, but I don't think I really _like_ like him."

His response bursts from his mouth unchecked, "Oh thank _fuck_."

"He's not that bad," Rosie insists, narrowing her eyes in a way that's undoubtedly meant to be threatening.

This time, it's Sherlock doing the eye rolling. "He's a jumped up, pretentious little trust fund twat, Rosamund Mary Watson. And before you say another word, yes, I am fully aware that it takes one to know one."

She smiles and then very quickly tries to hide it behind the stern demeanor she's picked up from Molly. Sherlock pretends not to notice, opting instead for another, more careful sip of his spiked tea.

"How do you do it?"

When he looks up, Mary's eyes are watching him, bright and curious but with a naivety Mary herself had never had. "Do what?" he asks, though he knows the answer.

"Not like anyone."

"I like some people," Sherlock explains with an excess of patience, the way he'd learned to do when Rosie was six and too young for her developing mind to sort out anything that wasn't plainly spoken. "I like you. I even like your father at times."

Rosie rolls her eyes at him. She might understand sarcasm now, but as a teenager she doesn't always appreciate his.

"You don't _like_ like anyone though. Not even Aunt Molly." Sherlock's mouth thins to a fine line. It's not enough to dissuade Rosie from carrying on. "But I know you two have sex."

"Rosamund," his voice cracks like a whip, "that is out of line."

She jerks in her seat. The water sloshes up to the rim of her glass, though it doesn't spill over. Flushing red, Rosie's gaze tumbles to the floor and she sullenly mutters, "Sorry."

Sherlock stifles a sigh, unable to bring himself to take her to task for the tone. She's not the only one in the room who struggles to find the necessary grace when apologizing for an ill-advised deduction.

"Rosamund, look at me." She does. "You've not been so tactless with Molly Hooper." It's a command more than a question.

Eyes wide and concerned, she shakes her head, her loose hair swinging around her face. Sherlock watches it brush her cheekbones and sees in tandem they way they'll sharpen in a few more years once she's shed the last of her baby fat and the way they used to be, rounded out even more, when she was a toddler.

"No sir," she says, quiet and earnest, clutching the glass in her lap. "I didn't ask Aunt Molly, because-" There's no need for her to finish that thought, even if she could find a way to word it. Rosie lifts one shoulder in a sheepish half-shrug. "I didn't think you'd mind, really. You never get embarrassed about anything."

 _I'm not embarrassed_ , he wants to say, except he is, just not in the way Rosie thinks.

"I am sorry, Uncle Sherlock," she says again, not begrudging it this time.

He flicks his fingers, forgiving and dismissing her blunder in one motion. "You're a good girl. Better than I."

Rosie gives him a weak smile and shakes her head. "You're the best, Uncle Sherlock."

She blinks a few times, sips her water, settles back into her seat. Sherlock meets her patient gaze and sighs. "I won't discuss Aunt Molly," he says, trying and failing to not be too quick to concede to her silent plea. "But you have other questions. So, ask."

Not wasting a moment, Rosie puts her glass down and leans forward, speaking in a rush, "Is it hard? Not liking people?"

He thinks about that, a little amused at the way she jumps right in. "Sometimes. People will talk; they do little else. I don't mind for myself, but it can be difficult for my friends."

"You mean like when the tabloids thought you and Dad were gay?"

Sherlock dips his head in a nod. "For example, yes."

Rosie chews on her lip for a moment. "Do you regret not- oh, um…" She censors herself just in time.

"I am not unhappy," Sherlock says. He can't speak for Molly, but she's never expressed a regret for their arrangement, at least. He hopes she's happy; he thinks that she is. But for all his professed prowess at deduction, Molly Hooper is one person he's never quite pinned down.

"When did you know?"

That isn't such an easy question to answer. Sherlock picks up his violin again, holding it against his chest and sliding his fingers along the strings without plucking any notes. In the end, he decides the truth is best. "I was about your age. I … didn't understand it until I was much older. Rosie-" She blinks at him, startled. Sherlock never uses her nickname unless it's serious.

Sherlock sets the violin down again, steepling his hands in front of his face. He's silent for so long that Rosie starts to squirm in her seat while she waits for him to find the right words. "All you really need to know is: don't hide from who you are. You'll only make yourself – and everyone around you – miserable."

Rosie is quiet, brow furrowed while she digests what he's told her. After a moment, Sherlock moves, downing the last of his tea and taking the cup to the kitchen.

"It's not ever easy, is it? For anyone?" Rosie says when he walks back into the sitting room. And there's Mary again, looking out at him from those eyes like an oppressive yet still welcome ghost.

Sherlock stops next to her chair and looks down at her, a fond smile stealing over his face despite the gravity of the topic. "No. No, I don't think it is."

He brushes a hand over her hair. Rosie lets him, leaning her head into his palm the way she did when she was small. One of her hands sneaks up to cover a yawn. "You've no need to find all your answers tonight," he says. "Go to bed, dearest girl."

Rosie nods, standing up and craning her neck to look up at him. "Thank you for talking to me, Uncle Sherlock," she says, entirely disingenuous.

He smirks. "Got what you wanted, then?"

Rosie lifts up on her tiptoes kiss him on the cheek and Sherlock bends a little so she can reach. "Yeah," she chirps with no small amount of cheek, "I always do."

Rosie slips off up the stairs, and Sherlock returns to his chair, but doesn't sit. Instead, he picks up his violin, then pauses. On the mantle is a photograph of Mary Watson, pregnant and smiling at the camera. Sherlock dips his head to her before he touches his bow to the violin strings, drawing out the first notes of a lullaby.


End file.
